


Give You the Moon

by TeaCub90



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Cuddling & Snuggling, Domestic, Friendship, Inspired by Real Events, It's a Wonderful Life (1946) References, Lockdown boyfriends, M/M, Slightly cracky but mostly serious, late christmas fic, slightly meta but not very
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-01-07
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:01:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28602624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaCub90/pseuds/TeaCub90
Summary: ‘Dear Waitrose – with the appropriate “at” sign and tagging, of course – I wish to exchange my turkey for two Lindt bars, four large tubs of Haagan Dazs ice-cream, and an awful lot of liquor.’
Relationships: Joss Bixby/Endeavour Morse, Max DeBryn & Endeavour Morse
Comments: 4
Kudos: 20





	Give You the Moon

**Author's Note:**

> So, bit of context for this one. After the UK government initially promised a five-day easing of the lockdown rules over the Christmas period, there was then a turnaround five days before Christmas and the public were informed that this was no longer the case. I was inspired to write this whole fic from a tweet I saw on Twitter as part of the response; however, whilst I've lost the link to the tweet itself, it was along very similar lines such as that which you see here. It's a late Christmas fic, but it is the twelfth night, so...
> 
> With many thanks to Mudlark for talking me through my anxiety regarding this particular fic and for the encouragement and support. As usual, I don't own Endeavour, or It's A Wonderful Life and all mistakes are mine. As this is a response to the situation we're all currently in, some people might find it non-escapist or triggering. 
> 
> Stay safe and Happy New Year.

* * *

‘Alright,’ Joss finishes typing and adjusts his tablet, reads aloud from the screen. ‘How does this sound? Dear Waitrose – with the appropriate “at” sign and tagging, of course – I wish to exchange my turkey for two Lindt bars, four large tubs of Haagan Dazs ice-cream, and an awful lot of liquor.’

‘Lager,’ Morse pipes up from the sofa, bent over his crossword. Joss parses this, then turns to make the appropriate changes.

‘Lager, then. And perhaps a whiskey. Or three.’

Morse smirks, glancing up from his own tablet, watching Joss type. ‘Are you seriously sending that?’ he asks as Joss hits the ‘enter’ key; gets a look in return that has him rolling his eyes, shaking his head, typing in the six-down for ‘magician.’ Pretends not to notice as Joss pushes away from the computer, saunters across the study, ignoring the view into the illustrious back-garden in favour of collapsing down beside Morse, or rather partly atop him, quite deliberately and provocatively resting his head against his thigh. Morse says nothing – simply shifts the tablet and strokes a hand through Joss’ hair and Joss hums into it, closing his eyes momentarily, as though letting all the stresses of the day sink out of him.

‘Well,’ he murmurs finally, crossing his hands over his stomach. ‘This is a fine how-do-you-do, old man.’

Morse hums, non-committal, his hair-stroking increasing. Christmas, he supposes, has never really meant, well, much to him – in his line of work, it’s an opportunity, more than anything, more hours put in for him, more things for the general community to attempt to steal. Christmas is filled with social media warnings of this scam or this company, or a random, thieving ruffian wandering around on a particular street in Birmingham. And yet, this - this is his first Christmas with Joss, at Joss’ extraordinarily large house, the pair of them in self-isolation in the most stylish way.

‘Sorry your lunch got cancelled,’ he offers feebly, pushing some of Joss’ hair back from his forehead; gets a long-suffering, all-too-understanding smile in return before Joss captures his hand and presses a courtly kiss to the back of it, as though hearing what he isn’t saying, and he’s definitely not saying it, at least not verbally.

‘I sincerely doubt it, old man.’ He twinkles up at Morse and Morse grimaces apologetically. It isn’t that – well. Christmas Eve lunch with friends sounds…well…it sounds alright, Morse supposes, and Tony Donn is always good company, even if he was threatening to get him and Joss drunk after lunch for a karaoke. (Still hasn’t lived that down after last time; there’s satirical talk the three of them, he and Joss and Tony, should become a three-man band, go on road tours; at least once this particular year is out of the way). Joss is a man who likes to entertain – sometimes, Morse considers that he likes too much of a good thing, but then he’s the man who’s gone from a small flat and a second-hand tablet bestowed by his sister, a thin winter-coat and savings stashed in a pot that thieves never managed to steal, to, well, this.

And yet, he can’t really look anywhere else save for the man in his arms right now, closing his eyes and humming, his face shifting into that gradual, casual disappointment of having to delay his usual, yearly gatherings. Morse puts the tablet aside and gathers his arms around him, cautiously, lets Joss melt into his lap.

‘Are you alright?’ he asks, quietly; Joss is a man given to ease – not simply because of the lifestyle he leads, but simply because he’s Joss, because he smoothes Morse’s edges with his quiet authority and firm tone, with gentle ‘Ah’s and soft, fond ‘old man’s – but their differences become clear on days like this one.

‘You know me, old man.’ Joss stretches a little, gazing up at him. ‘Onto the next.’

‘Hm.’ Morse smirks a little and they spend a moment in silence, contemplating the state of the world. This is, without a doubt, Morse’s favourite room in the house; the drawing room is the safe space, looking out to Joss’ garden, with enough room and air to play records, to relax, to rest, to drink whiskey and forget the rest; Morse’s job, Bixby’s family and everything in between.

‘Tell me what your crowd are doing,’ Joss requests, some considerable time later, turning on his side in Morse’s hold, arms folded, immaculate and lounging, and Morse startles, smirking despite himself at the manner with which Joss always refers to those he works with, colleagues and friends both; taps his thumbs as he tried to remember.

‘Well – the Thursdays are together – along with Strange, obviously, because they’re all the same bubble…’ And once upon a time, such a proclamation would have wounded him, left him empty with something he couldn’t explain or didn’t even want to, but now, much to his relief, it hurts far, far less. He wonders sometimes if this is how Jakes felt, before his move to America; at the sight of Morse, friendly with Sam, with Mrs Thursday, taking something he himself believed to be due: the bagman’s job, the fifth seat at the table, the eventual husband of Joan, shaking her father’s hand at Christmas, calling Mrs Thursday ‘Win’ at her request.

Oh, well. Jakes had been stupid enough to mess that up for himself before it started, and anyway, from what Morse can gather from the yearly Christmas cards sent back from Wyoming, Hope changed him, and changed him for the better – she and the child, both. He smiles down at Joss, brushes a hand over his fringe as he cranes his neck up to look at him; considers something for a moment. ‘I don’t think Bright’s with anyone. He likes to spend this time of the year alone.’

‘Of course,’ Joss nods gravely, face softening with sympathy and Morse squints briefly, wondering if he’s going to hear about a generous, expensive, anonymous hamper being delivered to Bright’s lonely door within the next day or so. He knows Max always calls the Superintendent during holiday periods, and that usually Thursday would have made some excuse to drop in, but this time may have to follow the doctor’s advice and have a mere phone-call suffice. It’s better than nothing, Morse reflects glumly.

‘And Doctor DeBryn?’ Joss pushes, after a significant pause, tilting his head to stare up at him; Morse shrugs – hasn’t been able to see Max in weeks, and when he has, it’s been with two meters between them and with the doctor’s twinkling, diamond eyes strained with increasing exhaustion and frustration, his Hippocratic Oath often at odds with the desire to simply strangle people who complain about wearing masks, for all the world as though such a temporary inconvenience won’t save their or someone else’s life. As it is, he’s had to settle for even more sarcasm than usual – as well as particularly well-chosen, cutting poetical quotations.

‘Had to self-isolate, I think.’ At that thought – and the realisation that he doesn’t actually know for certain, so rarely has he been able to speak to any of them lately – he gathers himself and reaches for his tablet; pulls up the internet and checks Max’s Instagram for any new developments. The doctor’s page is awash with continuous photographs of his garden at various stages of the year, and often of other particularly floral places he likes to visit, and a fair few scenic shots of the River Tay; with the common sense of a pathologist who works for the Home Office, Max never shares any pictures of himself, but Morse finds himself thumbing the page into life several times a week, like the softest kind of addiction. Doesn’t really get Instagram, barely uses Facebook and Twitter as it is, but. But. There’s something calming about the abundance of colour, a phantom of the calm that came with seedcake and ice-tea during a warm summer’s day once upon a time.

There’s nothing new – hasn’t been for a few days, really – and worry growing, Morse contemplates his options for a split second before pulling up his contacts and dialling Max on his tablet – the doctor having made the transition from Pathologist to Dr. Max DeBryn in his address-book, for professional formality’s sake – Joss shifting beside him as he moves around.

‘Everything alright?’

‘Just need to – Oh!’ Morse cuts himself off as Max’s face appears on-screen, curious and open, mouth and nose covered by a mask that’s black and dotted with different, brightly-coloured bowties and glasses comedically foggy; he’s in his kitchen, clearly, the place reassuringly bright.

‘Hello,’ he offers, sheepish in hindsight.

‘Morse.’ Max pulls the mask down, his round face red with obvious cold, the mist on his glasses starting to evaporate as he pushes them up over his salt and pepper hair, leaving his sharp, silver eyes momentarily uncovered with a curious look, ‘Just got back from the shops. How are you, old fellow? Compliments of the season.’

‘Er – yeah – and to you,’ Morse nods in his belated remembrance to offer the same, however feebly, as Joss straightens up, giving him room to speak; he throws him a warm, sideways look before focusing on the screen, feeling caught, forever caught, in that conundrum of wanting to look his conversational partner in the eye – as a police-officer and detective sergeant, he should be able to do this, but it’s jarringly difficult on video-camera when he’s all too conscious of the moving image of his reflection in the bottom corner of the screen.

‘I was – wondering where you were,’ he admits, as it sounds so much better than the open; might as well admit to his nosiness while he was ahead, a detective’s lot. ‘Are you alright?’

‘Perfectly. But it will simply have to be a turkey crown for one this year, I’m afraid,’ Max moves around, there’s shuffling as he places plastic Waitrose bags on the table. ‘A pathologist’s lot is never done.’

Morse breathes outwards, makes a mental note to text Joyce right after this. She is, he knows, spending Christmas with her partner, up north; he has no idea what Gwen is doing, and hasn’t asked – isn’t sure if she would forego the rules in complete defiance, in the misguided belief that they ‘can’t trust the government and it’s all a hoax,’ or go to the other extreme and batter down the hatches and not let anyone within a fifty-mile radius of her house on the off-chance they cough on her.

(Not that Morse will ever find himself going back to that house anytime soon, but all the same…)

‘I’m sorry,’ he offers, awkwardly aware this is the second time he’s offered the sentiment in the last ten minutes for something beyond him, and yet pained at the thought of it; of Max, sociable and easy-going, being alone on Christmas day when by rights, he should be relaxing with family, especially after all he’s done this year as part of the wider service; Morse knows all too well how readily he’s placed himself on the line several times to offer medical assistance to others and had been a driving force behind getting enough PPE to the hospital – it troubles and frustrates Morse that there’s nothing he can do to help.

And yet the sight of Max’s kitchen over the doctor’s shoulder is bright enough and as he turns his own tablet Morse can see the shine of red and green; Christmas decorations, which is reassuring; homely comforts. Indeed, Max doesn’t seem _too_ devastated to have time to himself at all – in fact, as they chat, Morse believes he can sense a certain relief in his tone.

‘More turkey-and-cranberry sandwiches for one,’ he confides to Morse, which makes him smile. ‘And no dealing with my niece’s husband’s odd remarks. He’s a lovely fellow but considerably gauche.’

‘Invite the doctor over here for a walk,’ Joss instructs in the background, going to mix a drink and Morse stares over at him.

‘Fairly sure that’s not allowed.’

‘We can go outside, old man, it’s not a problem.’ Joss turns from the mixer and shrugs. Max chuckles through the tablet.

‘Very generous of you, Mr. Bixby, but I rather relish the rest.’

‘Certainly.’ Joss pops up behind Morse, handing him a drink; pleasantly surprised, Morse accepts, smiling up at him as Joss holds his drink high. ‘To your continued good health, doctor. Many thanks for your diligent service this year.’

‘I’m a pathologist,’ Morse comments archly, his usual form of modesty, unwinding his scarf on camera; Joss merely shrugs elegantly.

‘And a bloody good one, judging by what he’s told me,’ he counters, gesturing to Morse, who busies himself taking a sip of his drink to avoid Max’s thoughtful eye. ‘Certainly if you can make this one pass out, then you must be a master of your trade.’ Morse almost chokes on his drink as Max chuckles appreciatively on the screen.

‘Although exhausted, I’d wager.’ Joss adds more seriously now, his gaze lingering on the screen, casting Max with a thoughtful look and Morse chuffs; there’s going to be two anonymous hampers out there on Christmas Day, he can feel it. _‘Oh, grant me the ease that is granted so free/the birthright of multitudes, give it to me.’_

Morse snorts, feeling completely wrong-footed. ‘That’s usually his line,’ he beckons to the tablet and is rewarded with a soft chuckle, a quick touch to his shoulder.

‘My apologies, old man. I’ll leave you to your chat. Merry Yuletide, Doctor.’ He departs quietly and Morse glances back at Max on the screen, alcohol caught in his mouth as he awaits the inevitable reaction.

‘Seems a nice chap,’ Max comments, raising his eyebrows with a faint smile and Morse grins, shakes his head.

They talk a while longer – and it’s pleasant, actually, sociable and attached to no cases in particular. Max walks the tablet around the cottage to show off his decorations, clearly more festive than usual in an attempt at distraction and Joss pops back up to commend him on his tree; the angel, Max shares with obvious pride, was made by his niece. They say goodbye, Max waving jovially and Morse feeling much more assured as they hang up, glancing at Joss as he sits back down beside him; closes his eyes as a firm palm meets the back of his head, rubs his scalp, plays with his hair, a dark gaze gleaming with a tender closeness.

‘Come here,’ Joss says finally, softly and Morse does indeed go there, swapping a soft hand for firm arms, resting his head on Joss’ shoulder, closes his eyes; breathes him in in, clean and firm and there, mouth and nose pressed against the reassurance that is Joss Bixby; as though he can tell where Morse’s thoughts are drifting, across Oxford and its subdued Christmas state; considering Max’s cosy cottage, considering the Thursdays’ homely two-up, two-down – considering Bright, alone with the memory of his wife.

‘Why so gloomy, old man?’ Joss’s voice is gentle above him, like the arm he slips softly around his shoulders; as light and gentle as a feather boa and Morse leans into it, half-reflexive and half-longing, into the soft, safe space of him, the gentle depths of his voice, his tones always putting Morse in mind of some deep sea somewhere, inhabited by singing whales; his hand when he slips it into Morse’s free one; even his forehead, his hair, when he rests it against his temple. That’s Joss for you, though: affection without syrup, tactile without smothering. He seems to have a sixth-sense for what people need, when they need it and Morse finds himself unable to be anything else except honest.

‘Been a difficult year,’ he murmurs, staring away into the fireplace; hears a humming voice on his right, like the soothing buzz of a bee. ‘And we’ve not been able to…’ He sighs and Joss shifts, prompting without words. ‘I’ve not been able to…So many have helped. Max, for one.’ He stares out of the window and beyond, wondering if it would be strange to meet up in Max’s garden, the three of them, in the coming year once all this is past – if it ever passes; somehow can see Joss utterly at home there in the way he seems at home everywhere, going far beyond Morse’s quiet, awestruck ‘It’s nice’ and strolling the whole garden, passing comment on absolutely every single flower he saw and most likely having friendly, poetic Housman quote-offs with Max.

It would mean a lot, Morse realises. To him, it would mean the world. If only they could get there, this possibility that seems to exist in some other long-lost alternative reality, now. He closes his eyes, feels the soft point of Joss’s chin on his shoulder, watching and waiting; turns to look at him finally, meets his gaze.

‘And Superintendent Bright, he’s alone – after everything and – what’s it all for?’ He taps his thumb against the arm of the sofa. ‘You know…sometimes, I wonder if we’re really worth saving, at all, the entire human-race. Nine months of this, Bix. What the hell are we doing?’

Joss contemplates that question for a long moment, unmoving, chocolate-dark eyes flickering, contemplative. Finally, he shifts his head, presses his cheek against Morse’s jumper, staring off into some space that only Joss Bixby seems completely privy to.

‘I wonder the same thing, myself, old man,’ he says eventually, like the most obvious kind of admission. ‘For a country that prides itself on having won a war or two,’ he breaks himself off to bring Morse’s hand to his lips, kisses the back of it courteously, ‘we’re altogether rather useless in a crisis, I feel.’

Morse hums, nods, even as Joss’ hand sweeps up and down his back, comforting, a firm press like a weighted blanket; there’s a relief about it, about this whole thing and he had felt helpless, ashamed even as he said it, as though he’s dismissing _them_ as well, along with everything and everybody else, what they themselves share, and as Joss wraps his arms around him, all he can do is drop his head on his shoulder and he clutches onto Joss’s hand somewhat helplessly, lets the questions neither of them can answer flicker and crackle along with the fire.

*

He buys Joss a projector for Christmas; a relatively cheap one – after all, what do you get for the man who has everything? – but Joss exclaims with joy when he pulls it out of the box, insists on setting it up straight away. They settle down together in the study and it’s just like being at the cinema; not that Morse ever goes too often, of course, but maybe that’s what makes the comparison so pleasant. No screaming in the dark, no scattered popcorn for one; just him and Joss, both taking up a chair either side of the thing, a bottle of shared lager and a tub of Honeycomb Haagen-Dazs between them. Joss, ever the common man when it comes to chocolate, has ordered an entire box of Cadbury bars on the Internet (‘panic-buying without the panic, old man,’ he nodded over the order while Morse gaped at the pricing) and occasionally stoops to snatch one up by his feet. The turkey remains in the freezer, designated for eating sometime in the new year.

The whole set-up is childlike, oddly charming and Morse has even been allowed to choose the film. His natural inclination would have been to choose an old Bergman, or maybe a Shakespeare adaptation – however, he’s genius enough to recognise his own lack of affinity for modern media and as he’s been blithely informed many times, his cultural tastes are somewhat lacking, but he’s also cheered by the fact that Joss doesn’t seem to mind any of it anyway. Picks up Morse’s peculiarities, and comes the rest of the way with them.

With that in mind, Morse goes out on a limb and chooses _It’s a Wonderful Life –_ everyone, including Joss, seems to like James Stewart and he saw _Harvey_ once with Joyce; while rather fanciful, he actually quite enjoyed it, enjoyed watching Joyce’s rapt attention next to him as she giggled at the screen. Anyway, it’s black and white and historical while still being a significant favourite and he’s always been rather considered as a man somewhat out of his time.

He spends the first ten minutes of the film watching Joss’ reaction rather than watching the screen but then Joss’ hand comes away from his ice-cream tub and he takes a light hold of Morse’s hand, squeezes with what can only be reassurance. Morse makes himself relax and takes another sip of lager, preferring it over dry popcorn; can’t help but smirk, here or there, at the apparent consequences of one, single man’s absence – at how far one person’s influence spreads. Perhaps it’s imperceptibly cold-blooded of him; perhaps borne of resentment, that those long nights at his father’s house, Joyce’s attempts at childish comforts completely at odds with Gwen’s drip, drip, drip of hatreds, never resulted in anything like this. He could have died long ago, out of one of the many ways he lined up to do it, and it would never have made a difference. On Joyce, perhaps, but on the rest of the world, well…

There’s a brush against his hand, the back of a finger, soft, and Morse looks at him; looks at Joss looking back, unblinking but reassuring. Without saying a word, while James Stewart’s life falls around him on-screen, he twines their fingers together tightly together on the table; Morse doubts that even a sudden emergency call to work or a crime-scene would be enough for Joss to let him go; feels the warmth of a magician’s hands in his own, the rub over his hands like the rubbing of a coin, never-wearing, always constant. 

It’s just the two of them over Christmas; Joss had, once again, put all the staff on reassuring furlough as soon as the new wave hit and told them to stay safely at home with their families, promising them a return to work at the earliest and safest opportunity and so when the film ends, it’s just Morse and Joss who sway to their feet, make a haphazard attempt at clearing up the ice-cream and lager. Morse, falling back on the habit of a lifetime by plucking up the dishes – years spent trying to appease himself to Gwen in some way, to thank her for cooking the food he ate and washing the clothes he wore by cleaning up, only to be criticised for his water-usage and his lack of rationing of fairy-liquid before Gwen nagged his father, yet again, for a dishwasher – takes them through to the kitchen, just manages to stops short of falling back on that teenage compulsion he had; a careful quarter filling of the sink, no more, a _minute_ slip of liquid on a kitchen sponge, _that bottle has to last the month, Endeavour._

He doesn’t, in fact, really need to do anything; Joss, after all, _has_ a dishwasher. His head aches pleasantly, sleepily, for all that it’s only four in the afternoon. He absent-mindedly considers the Thursdays’ Christmas somewhere across Oxford right now: both Thursday and Strange dozing off in front of the telly before being whacked upright and conscripted to the washing up (a year of living with the fellow taught Morse this: Strange is a good cook and scintillating company, in his way, but he also has a rather pompous expectation to be waited on in return); Max, enjoying his much-deserved peace and quiet with a cake and a hot chocolate – decides to call him shortly, just to be sure.

After they load up the dishwasher, let it rumble to life, Joss steps up to him with a soft smile and reels him in gently by the hand into a long, tight hug, rubbing a hand up and down his back, a soft murmur of, ‘Hello, old man,’ right in his ear. Morse closes his eyes and takes a breath; holds on tightly for all he’s worth, breathes against the cotton of his shirt; watches the dim, lemon-like shades of the house, growing brighter in the grey gathering outside.

_You - you want the moon? Just say the word and I’ll pull a lasso around it and pull it down. Say, that’s a pretty good idea…_

‘Sometimes I wonder,’ he murmurs the words into Joss’s shoulder, struck by the childish comforts of James Stewart in that film, ‘what it is that I could truly give you.’ Becoming part of Joss’ bubble, turning one man into two, didn’t really have the intention of being stuck in his lovely big house over Christmas when others don’t even have a garden – he’s always been used to the cheapest flat, the smallest room – here, however, he runs in a world that isn’t his, but which he stumbled into and decided to stay. The Thursdays once welcomed him into an alternative space with their hot meals and dinner-time banter, Thursday telling Joan and Sam to leave work at the door and to put their phones away at the table; Max gave him the heat and air of a summer’s garden, friendliness in the form of a cold drink and a sweet cake.

‘Everything,’ Joss informs him simply before pulling back to look at him, cradling his cheek, the weight of that word, the expectations, somehow so easy on his tongue. ‘And nothing, old man. Although, I feel duty-bound to tell you now that if you _had_ managed to succeed where George Bailey failed,’ and there’s a slightly stern slant to his voice now, one that dims the chuckling, white-card edges of his kind, easy smile into something faded, his hand grasping onto Morse’s that little bit tighter with something like determination to change history, ‘Then I would have been all the worse off.’

Morse blinks, hard; he’s seen Joss unhappy; not often, but enough, confidence speared by things not even he or Bix could foresee – and he’s seen himself in the mirror enough times, in a life pre-Joss, with both dark and light eyes, with a pale face on a cold morning and one reddened by drink, or rage, or restlessness. And once long ago, by the chill at his mother’s gravestone before his father’s hand landed on his shoulder and brought him to a room that wasn’t his, in a house that wasn’t home; knows it’s a similar story behind Joss’s eyes, one that neither of them particularly cares to share, at least not more than once.

‘You would never have known me,’ he manages; Joss takes both of his hands, bows his head low and presses Morse’s knuckles to his lips; kisses both hard and tender, his thumbs rubbing a reassuring path over his skin.

‘Doesn’t matter.’ He meets Morse’s eyes for a long moment, a little bit haunted, a little bit darkened as he straightens up and then they embrace, wrapped tight together like ribbons, and as Morse’s chin meets Joss’s shoulder, he closes his eyes, and listens; listens to the crackling of the fire in the lounge, warming the house, the wind whipping the walls, unable to get in; to the quiet.

Remarkably – _magically –_ Joss Bixby is the man who manages to quieten his mind.

‘Merry Christmas, old man,’ Joss murmurs eventually, calmer and as tender as ever, cradling the crown of his head, pressing kisses to his cheek, to the corner of his eye and Morse chuckles into his jacket, breath puffing as he’s carefully claimed and lassoed. ‘Come on. We’ve got a few more tubs of Haagen-Dazs to get through.’

*

**Author's Note:**

> Joss - yes, you read that right, Joss, NOT Max! - quotes from A.E. Housman's poem 'The stars have not dealt me the worst they could do.'


End file.
